“Morning,” she says, voice soft but steady.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rough. I clear it, fail to smooth anything out. “You on early?”
“Rolled in for inventory. Dax’s still learning where we hide the good saline.”
“Top shelf behind the blankets,” I say, automatic.
Her mouth curves. “You always did hoard the good stuff.”
“You always found it.” I force a smile. “Human bloodhound.”
“Insult or compliment?”
“Both.”
She lifts her cup toward me. “Truce coffee?”
“Only if it’s gasoline.”
“Close.” She looks at the peaks like a shield. “It’s obscenely pretty today.”
“Snow globe,” I say before thinking.
Her head tips. “You said that when we were young.”
I blink. “I did?”
She nods. “First big snow after my mom died. We stood on your porch and you said it looked like the mountain went inside a snow globe. I told you to shake it harder so the flakes would stick to the pines.”
I remember it now—her hair jammed under a beanie with a pom-pom.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That day.”
She studies my face like she can read what I didn’t say. “We were annoying.”
“We were loud.”
“We were… okay.”
Some days we were. Some days we weren’t.
Snow slips off the bay roof in a soft rush. The sound shakes the spell. The guys yell about chains and torque in the background, the world remembers it has business, and I remember we should too.
“Got training in ten,” I say, jerking my chin toward the side yard. “Hose evolutions. You’ll hate it.”
“I’ll hate watching you refuse to wear your hat,” she counters. “Your ears are practically frostbite.”
“Romantic.”
“Practical.” Her eyes flick to my hair—bare head, cold wind—and then back to mine like the sight offended her.
“You used to steal my beanies,” I say.
“You used to leave them on my staircase like you were feeding a stray.”
“You were a stray.”
“I was a menace,” she corrects, and the corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it.
